Planting her bare feet on the soil, the woman stands up on strong, shapely legs. The gallons of beer aside, she appears athletic. The skinny-fat man in the marble bag does not. He follows behind, all bony legs and arms, as she approaches Hunter, Itch, and Nugget. The man works a toothpick in a mouth beyond the help of modern dentistry. The woman, leading the way with a PBR longneck in her hand, stops a few feet from Hunter. Lifting the beer to her lips, she takes a long pull and swallows. Looks at Itch. Shakes her head with a shit-eating grin. “You best be here with my goddamned money, or we got jack shit to talk about, Itch. You and your little gang of scooter trash’ll be passing slang with my three boys and their colleagues Smith and Wesson.”

Confident, Hunter doesn’t let Itch talk, tells the lady, “Why we’re here—to clear up Itch’s payment, what he owes you. Get his bike back and get on down the line.”

Eyes stab like bayonets into Hunter’s sight and out the back of his skull. “Don’t recall talking to you.” Pausing, she makes a face as if she maybe ate some spoiled brussels sprouts. “Sorry, who the fuck are you? I didn’t get your name. Oh, wait, that’s because I wasn’t fucking talking to you!”

This chick is napalm. “Name’s Hunter, friend of Itch’s.” Swinging his leg over his bike, he steps toward her, offers a gloved hand. “And you are . . . ?”

Green eyes lined by thick, sweaty eyeliner glance from Hunter’s hand to his crotch, then her stare carves back through him. Smirking, she takes Hunter’s hand, shakes it. “I’m Malone. Ms. Marylin Malone. And this steaming-hot hunk of horseshit behind me is Oscar, my multitalented fiancé.”

Nodding, Hunter tells Ms. Malone, “Got Itch’s debt covered.” Reaches into his hip pocket. Malone’s men mirror him, reaching behind their backs and hauling out large-caliber handguns. Hammers click, and Malone says, “The hell you think you’re doing, reaching behind your back like that, Mr. Hunter?”

“Easy.” Hunter holds his left palm up as his right hand gingerly lifts out his chained leather wallet. Holds it up for everyone to see. “Like I said, got Itch’s payment covered. Just going in my wallet to get your money.”

Oscar laughs. “You ’bout got your ass lit up like a Roman candle, son.”

Hunter unsnaps his wallet. The three men in his peripheral vision keep their pistols trained on him. Not the Taliban this time, but maybe not so different.

Malone tells Hunter, “Just keep it slow and simple there, Mr. Hunter.”

“No need to go tribal. See?” Hunter says, pulling a wad of bills from his wallet. “It’s all Benjamin Franklin.”